The Wrong Taxi
by Grapefruit Wit
Summary: Sherlock and John take another case, this time involving a missing person.


The Wrong Taxi

"Did you ask him about it?"

"Yes. He didn't have many things to say about it."

"Many things at all, or many _nice_ things?"

Watson felt he ought to be generous to Sherlock, who, after all, was not used to going on dates.

"Things at all."

"Right."

In fact, Sherlock had truly said very little about the double date. Sarah had insisted he try prying into the subject but John knew that would only result in the nastiest evaluation Sherlock could give. In the end he settled for, "I've been in worse company."

"Well I thought she was nice, and as good a fit for him as any woman is ever likely to be. I know, we should invite them both to tea."

"Yeah, sounds great. That'll be Sherlock," he said as his phone chimed, "I'll see you later, then."

"I see you got a good night's rest." This was how Sherlock greeted Watson upon his arrival back at 221B Baker Street.

"Yes, as it happens I did."

"Good, because we've got a long day ahead of us."

"Yeah? What's the case?"

"Missing person; Forrest Felter, aged 42, last seen by his wife leaving the B+B Belgravia."

There wasn't time for John to even change his shirt; Sherlock was already in his overcoat and had just finished threading his scarf.

Mrs. Felter was waiting for them in the lobby of the bed and breakfast. Her face was streaked from crying and her hands trembled as she shook John's.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Felter," he said. "We'll find your husband."

"Not necessarily alive, of course," added Sherlock. "But we will find him."

"Do- do you think he's dead?" Mrs. Felter asked, growing more uncomfortable by the minute.

"More than half of all missing persons cases go unsolved, in which the majority of those involved are assumed deceased. But that's the national average; my own statistics are quite different."

John had hung his head and was shaking it. Sherlock caught the hint and moved on.

"Why don't you show us to your room?"

As Mrs. Felter relayed to John the circumstances prior to her husband's disappearance, Sherlock took a tour of the couple's lodging.

"We arrived here Tuesday last," she said, "from Edinburgh. Forrest's work is about to get hectic so we decided to take our holiday early. I thought everything was fine- he's been in good spirits all week. Then, yesterday afternoon, he went out to grab us a coffee but never came back. I've tried calling and calling his mobile but it just goes straight to voicemail."

"You said his work was about to get hectic. What does he do?" John was the one conducting the interview. He knew Sherlock would listen to every word, even though at the moment he was utterly absorbed in the room's wall sockets.

"He's on the Council for Community Events and Culture."

"And has he made any enemies through his job, any-"

"Not relevant," Sherlock interrupted from behind the window curtain.

"Sorry?"

"It's not a relevant question. His disappearance is not work related."

"How do you know that? He did have rivals at work, none of whom I can see killing him, though."

"I'll explain it all later, Mrs. Felter. But right now my colleague and I need to keep moving. I'll contact you if we need further information."

"Well?" Watson asked. They had left the hotel and were walking at Sherlock's brisk pace.

"Forrest Felter always meant to return to the bed and breakfast. He left his phone charger behind as well as a very expensive razor. When people leave their husbands or wives they always pack their necessities, the things that are as much a part of them as their wallets. It's stuff no one likes replacing."

"So you suspect foul play."

"Yes. He was going out just for coffee but somewhere between here and…Nero's, he ran into some trouble."

"How do you know he was going to Nero's?"

"One: look at the B+B they were staying in- very modern, sleek, artsy. Two: his clothes- all neutrals and all very beatnik. Three: his job- he works promoting culture, although not the same level he himself ascribes to. Four- he was getting coffee, not tea. He obviously cared about the quality of his beverage and wouldn't risk just any café on the block."

"And there were already Nero cups in the trash bin," Watson added, thinking back on the Felter's room.

"Excellent, Watson! Yes, the Felters are creatures of habit."

The closest Nero's was seven blocks from the Belgravia; it took Sherlock and Watson approximately 15 minutes to walk there. The barista behind the counter was calling every other customer by name, so she was clearly the regular afternoon employee.

"Nothing for me," he said when they got to the front of the line. "Did you happen to see a man come in here yesterday, you would have noticed, he's been in every afternoon for the past five days, dressed in mostly black, designer glasses, ordered a dry cappuccino with nonfat milk?"

"Yeah, he was here. He ordered his coffee, sat down, read the paper for a bit, then left."

"How many coffees did he order?"

"Just the one."

"Splendid, thanks."

"You picked up a paper yesterday, right Watson?"

"Yeah, I left it in the flat."

"Great. I need to see it."

"Why?"

"Mrs. Felter said that he went out to get coffee for the both of them, but he never ordered hers. Something in the paper distracted him from it, otherwise he never would have forgotten. We need to know what that something was."

It took John a few minutes of rearranging the living space of 221B Baker Street before he found the previous day's paper. He handed it to Sherlock, who promptly threw all but one section to the floor.

"No; no; no; no; no. Aha! 'Sir Malcom Bede announced last night that he was coming out of retirement for a three-night run of his most famous play, _Albatross Diminished. _Tickets go on sale this morning; available only at the box office.'"

"He went to go see a play?"

"No, he went to go get tickets for the play. He didn't call his wife because he was hoping to surprise her; he knew he would have at least an hour before she got really worried."

He dropped the paper on top of its counterparts and turned on his heel.

"Come on, let's go."

"Where are we going?"

"To see Sir Malcom Bede's last great performance."

There was no line at the box office when Watson and Sherlock arrived in the West End.

"Sorry- sold out," said the woman behind the glass.

"Actually, my wife was here yesterday and bought tickets for tonight's show, but I think she might have reserved one too many."

"What's the name?"

"Fealt."

"Alright…nothing for Fealt…maybe it's under another name?"

"Try Felter; my wife has a bit of an accent, hard to understand sometimes."

Sherlock, whose normal manner could at best be described as frank, could be alarmingly disarming when called for.

"Yup; two tickets for Felter, bought yesterday."

"Only two? Great, thank you."

"So he was here; he bought the tickets," Watson said.

"Yes. So the question is, what happened between here and The Belgravia?"

"Maybe there was an accident and he's in hospital."

"No. He had his phone and wallet on him; he would easily have been ID'd and his wife contacted."

"Kidnapped?"

"Unlikely. Detoured, however, seems a possibility. He would have wanted to take the fastest route possible back to his B+B, which is-"

"The tube."

"Right. But…"

Watson looked at the underground entrance, trying to see what Sherlock saw.

"It was rush hour."

"And?"

"And," he looked again, "if there was also construction on the line, he would have avoided it and taken a taxi instead."

"Good! Excellent! So our Mr. Felter got into a taxi, headed back to…oh. Ohhhh."

"What?"

Sherlock stepped into the street and hailed a taxi, conspicuous with his tall frame and billowing coat.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

"Last night at 7 o'clock the Turkish Embassy was bombed. A taxi that had been driving by at the time was hit by the blast. Both the driver and the passenger were given medical attention, during which time the police found the detonator in the front seat of the taxi. Both men were taken into custody under suspicion of terrorist activity."

"Mr. Felter is a terrorist?"

"No; he was just in the wrong taxi at the wrong time."

"The good news, Mrs. Felter, is that we have located your husband. The bad news is that he is being held in Scotland Yard as a possible terrorist."

Sherlock was pleased with himself; Mrs. Felter was not.

"Oh my god…a terrorist? What happened? How do I get him back? He's not a terrorist!"

Tears were beginning to form in her eyes. Sherlock hated to see people cry; hysteria was such a worthless emotion. Anything that rendered a logical, thinking being into a bumbling mess was to be despised. Luckily John cut in, saving Sherlock the trouble of having to look sympathetic.

"It's going to be alright, Mrs. Felter. Just go to Scotland Yard, ask for Inspector Lestrade and tell him we sent you. He should be able to help you get your husband back."

"I see the newspapers failed to credit either of you on the Turkish case," Sarah said as Watson put on his coat.

"Publicity is nothing more than the public's attempt to atone for their stupidity," Sherlock shot back from his place on the couch.

"Well I for one think hard work should be rewarded."

"Solving the crime should be reward enough, it-"

"Ready to go, Sarah?" Watson interjected, cutting off what was likely to be a rant about the wasted potential of the human intellect.

"Yeah. Say, Sherlock, why don't you come 'round with John for tea on Sunday?"

"Sorry, I never make plans. Especially ones I don't intend to keep."

"Just think about it, alright?"

"Done."

Once they were outside the flat Sarah turned on John.

"Just get him to come, alright? I've already called Maggie, she said she'll be there. And she's bringing some nibbles with her."

"You again," Sherlock said as he entered Sarah's flat.

"Disappointed?" Maggie responded.

"No. Your presence is hardly enough to solicit that sort of emotional response."

"Yes, nice to see you again too. Tea?"

"Please, two sugars. Thank you. John, might I have a word?"

John and Sherlock retreated to the far corner of the kitchen. Maggie and Sarah both knew what they were about to talk of; the same subject would have been broached by the two women as well, had not Maggie been pleased with the appearance of the extra guest. She had, in fact, been hoping all along that he had also been invited.

"Is this a set up, John?"

"What? No…" John was a fairly terrible liar, even with people far less intimidating than Sherlock.

"John; you know I am devoted to my work and have no patience for outside distractions. I do. not. date. And have no desire to begin doing so."

"She's just here for tea. Besides, she and Sarah seem to get on well. I reckon they'll be good friends soon. Oh, and she brought more of her homemade biscuits- they're on the table."

Watson gave Sherlock a quick smile that betrayed his amusement at seeing his friend forced into an awkward social situation. He just hoped that Sherlock would take it in stride and be amicable.

"Are you staying? Despite the fact that your friends are blatantly trying to get you to act like a normal human being and interact with others?" Maggie asked.

"I do interact with others. Quite regularly, in fact."

"Oh, yes? And how many of these people want to continue to interact with you? And those who rely on you for your services do not count."

Sherlock fixed her with his stony gaze; it always came right before words of brutal honesty.

"I have never once in my life worried over or sought out another person's approval. There are the seldom few who are willing to give it freely and though I may not show it, I do appreciate these people. But if you make the mistake of thinking that this approval is then mutual, you are mistaken."

"Well, then why don't we begin by discerning whether or not you approve of my baking. Have a biscuit- they're a bit surprising at first but they'll soon grow on you."

Sarah was shocked by Sherlock's audacity and rudeness and had thought to interrupt their discussion, but she was glad she hadn't, for Maggie could hold her own against him. She chanced a quick glance at John, who looked just as stunned as she was.

"Cayenne, cinnamon, cloves, orange peel and chocolate. Seems a bit contrived, but I like it," Sherlock conceded.

It was enough; for now.


End file.
